If what is said is true, then Aethelbald knows of his heritage and what I did to his father and grandfather. He knows what I did to Wessex, which means it’s not only my head he comes for. He comes for my kingdom too.
He wishes to sit on Wessex’s throne, and he cannot do that with me as the Queen of Northumbria. He also cannot do that when another king rules Wessex. I fear for King Raedwulf of Wessex, my dear friend; his life is in danger.
He was anointed as king under my order, but now I worry that his reign will come to an end.
As do us all.
This battle has just become Wessex’s fight as well.
I must find Lord Louis immediately and inform him of my findings. There is no time to waste, for England will be bleeding once more.
“Take me to him,” I order firmly. “I am an ally he needs. Imagine the riches you will reap for being the ones who brought down Queen Emeline.”
The men are gluttonous bastards, and I can see their delight at the prospect of having everything they desire within reach. I need them alive for now, but the moment I uncover where Aethelbald is, I will end each of their lives, and painfully so.
“All right, we will take you to him. But first, we need to know you can be trusted.”
“And how is that so?”
When one man licks his full lips, I know how.
I am faced with two options—I submit, being a whore to these vile men, or I fight.
If I fight, then I risk my children, my kingdom, and the lives of many. But if I surrender, I once again become a whore to England.
There is only one choice I can make—I cannot lose because I am no one’s whore.
“That seems like a fair request,” I concur softly. “Who wants to go first?”
Before they can volunteer, I strike my head back and connect with the short man’s nose. He screams in shock and terror and cups his nose, which frees my wrists. I waste no time and lunge for his blade, stabbing him in the throat.
I can’t take delight in seeing him bleed out because I have another five men whose lives I need to end.
I slice the throat of another man who stands in disbelief that I am not a damsel in distress as they predicted me to be.
I take his sword.
Two down…
The remaining men withdraw their swords and come charging toward me. I fight with my life because losing is not an option. When they realize they’ve been tricked, their anger rules, which is the error of man number three, who receives my sword through his bowels, innards spill onto the floor as I sever him from guts to gullet.
The bloodshed fuels my rage, and I continue to fight with a strength that cannot be matched because these men are mere babes in war. They attack in numbers, but I duck and weave, for I have fought against an army of men and won.
One man slices my forearm, and for that, I stab him through the eye, withdrawing my blade and stabbing him in the heart. He drops to the ground with a thud.
The remaining two men soon understand this is a fight they will not win because I am no lady-in-waiting.
“You are Queen Emeline,” one says, sword extended out in front of him.
“Yes, I am, and I plan on taking your head.”
Before he can speak, I slice my sword through the air and do as promised. I take his head. It rolls along the ground, coming to a stop by the feet of the other man, who peers down at it, eyes as wide as his dead friend’s.
“I w-will take you to him,” he says in fear, attempting to bargain for his life.
The old Emeline may have spared him, but that Emeline is no more. “I think I shall take my chances.”
He opens his mouth, attempting to plead for mercy, but none will be had when I drive my sword through his open mouth, withdrawing slowly and watching in pleasure as he drops dead.
